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Every morning, when Chihiro washes his face, he spends a good amount of time looking in the mirror. Once, he tells Shiba that he calls it fresh hatred, but it’s more than just that. He hates his scar — it grosses him out. Even three years later, it’s still a completely different texture than normal skin, slick and shiny in some places and hard and gnarled in others. It pulls on his face when he speaks and tightens up when he showers, becomes chapped and cracked when the weather turns. It aches and throbs when he gets too emotional, gives him migraines that knock him flat for days at a time. People stare at it until they realize he’s noticed them looking. More than once, a child loudly comments on it before being shushed by their embarrassed parent.
It’s ugly.
But that’s kind of the point, so the scar cream Shiba keeps buying for him remains untouched and unopened in the medicine cabinet, right next to the prescription-grade painkillers Chihiro also refuses. He doesn’t like how they mess with his head, how they make his mind foggy and dull, and so that’s where they stay.
But there’s good days and bad days, and he knows from experience that when the weather turns cold, bad days are more likely. It’s the day after he completes the latest errand the Kamunabi assigns him when Chihiro has his first bad day in a while, when he wakes up feeling like someone’s taking an icepick to his left eye.
Luckily, he makes it to the bathroom and falls to his knees before he empties his stomach. After what feels like a few minutes but is probably less than that, the light clicks on and pain explodes behind his eyes. When he comes back to himself, Hakuri is there, rubbing circles between his shoulderblades. It takes a beat too long for Chihiro to remember that they’re sharing a room at Kamunabi headquarters.
“Hey,” Hakuri says, and the sound brings a fresh wave of pain rolling over him, “you okay?”
“Light,” he grunts out. Hakuri must understand somehow, because the light flickers off a few seconds later. Chihiro shudders in relief, pressing his forehead against the edge of the toilet seat, even though just the cool porcelain against his skin feels like too much.
Hakuri continues rubbing circles on his back. It feels good. “Better?”
The sound doesn’t hurt as much this time, maybe because the lights are off and maybe because he’s speaking a little quieter. “Migraine,” Chihiro says.
Hakuri’s hand stills. “…Oh,” he says, pitching his voice even quieter. “Do you… want me to go?”
Not really, but there’s not any reason to ask him to stay, either. It hurts to think too hard about what he should say, so he grunts instead.
Apparently, Hakuri interprets this as an affirmative, because his hand withdraws. Chihiro’s a little disappointed, but once again, there wasn’t really a reason to ask him to stay, not really. “Okay, I’ll… leave you to it…”
In time, Chihiro peels himself away from the toilet. He takes the tiny trashcan in the bathroom with him when he goes back to bed, though, just in case. Suddenly, he’s absurdly thankful that the Kamunabi headquarters is underground, because that means no windows. He doesn’t have to pull the covers over his head to block out the light, doesn’t want to because he’s already sweating buckets. He curls up on his right side, his scar throbbing in time with his pulse.
Somehow, he must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows, there’s a hand on his shoulder.
“Chihiro.” It’s Hakuri again. Chihiro cracks open his right eye, but it’s dark, the only light coming from the gap beneath the door. He can only see the faint outline of Hakuri’s figure, like a shadow in reverse. “I brought you some water, and some crackers from the cafeteria… I didn’t think you’d be up to eating, since, ya know, but if you can, it’s good to try…”
Chihiro wets his lips and mutters, “You came back.”
“Of course,” he says. “Where else would I go?” Hakuri set a couple things behind Chihiro’s head. “I got some other stuff that’ll help, too.”
“No medicine,” he says. His words sound slurred even to his own ears, and it’s hard to string together his thoughts. “Don’t like it.”
“…Okay,” Hakuri says, even though he sounds doubtful, “if you’re sure.” The bed dips next to Chihiro’s hip. “I have a wet towel. It’ll help.”
Chihiro hums.
Hakuri apparently takes it as permission, because something cool and damp presses against his forehead. He flinches and gasps — it feels like electricity, like ice is being injected straight into his veins — and it withdraws.
“…Is it your scar?” Hakuri asks. It’s the first time he’s ever even mentioned it.
Eventually, Chihiro says, “Yeah. Just happens, sometimes.”
There’s silence for long enough that Chihiro wonders if he’s fallen asleep again, but then Hakuri speaks. “Sometimes, my scars hurt too. When it storms. I have some scar cream, if you want to — ”
“No, it’s gross.”
“Yeah. The good stuff’s got silicone in it, so it’s pretty hard to — ”
“No.” Hakuri didn’t get it. “It’s gross.”
Hakuri swallows audibly, and when he speaks, his voice sounds thin and reedy. “Um, you know, my father used to talk about kintsugi, where you repair broken pottery with precious metals. Apparently, it’s like, a whole art form, and when you’re done, the object itself is more valuable. Not that I know much about fine art…” Hakuri laughs like he’s nervous. Why is he nervous? And why does Chihiro feel a little nervous too? “A - anyway, I don’t think it’s — gross, or whatever. And if you’re not feeling up to it, I can help you out. Just if you want!” Chihiro winces, and Hakuri curbs his enthusiasm a little. “With the scar cream, I mean. Just if you want.”
Chihiro should tell him thanks, but no. He doesn’t like being fussed over, never really has, even when he was a little kid — he’d rather be left alone to sleep off any illness or injury. There’s only so much coddling he can tolerate. He appreciates Hakuri’s concern, but it’s just not his style.
But for some reason, he says, “Okay.”
He should backtrack, tell Hakuri he changed his mind. He doesn’t, not when Hakuri sets his pillow on his lap and has Chihiro lay his head there, not when he squeezes out a dollop of scar cream into his hand and warms it with his fingers. The hot, embarrassed feeling spreads from his cheeks to his neck to his chest, down each of his limbs to the tips of his fingers and toes. It feels like they’re doing something they shouldn’t, like they’re doing something naughty in the dark. If someone walks in, Chihiro doesn’t even know what he’d say.
Hakuri, thankfully, mistakes most of the tension for pain. “It might hurt a bit at first,” he warns him, “but it’ll help after a minute.”
He starts at the cross on Chihiro’s cheek, and he’s right — it does hurt, but only a little bit. The scar cream isn’t too sticky or heavy, carefully warmed with Hakuri’s own body heat, and even though the pressure against the hard knot of collagen beneath his skin is unpleasant, the touch itself is fine. Maybe more than fine, maybe even nice. The last person who touched Chihiro’s face was the doctor who stitched him up — before that, his father.
Hakuri rubs it in slow circles. “Have you never done this before?” Chihiro can hear the frown in his voice.
“Not really,” he says.
He clicks his teeth. “No wonder you get migraines. It’s really tight.”
Usually, he’s offended by insinuations that he can’t take care of himself, but he finds himself not minding all that much. Maybe it has more to do with the fact that Hakuri’s hand moves across his cheek to the expanse of scar tissue right next to his ear. His fingers brush against the shell, and it feels like electricity and fire but makes Chihiro shiver like he’s cold.
“Sorry,” Hakuri mumbles. “Did that hurt?”
No, it hadn’t — not at all. “It’s fine.”
He’s careful not to touch his ear again, though, and Chihiro felt weirdly disappointed. He’s never had a friend before, but he knows that it’s definitely weird to ask a friend to play with your ears, and so he says nothing. He doesn’t want Hakuri to think he’s weird. Chihiro wants him to think he’s cool, and strong, and interesting, someone he wants to be around all the time…
And he really, really wants Hakuri to like him back.
Hakuri’s hand moves to his forehead, and Chihiro closes his eyes. If he’s being honest, Chihiro’s not sure his odds are all that great — Hakuri could have anyone he wanted, probably, and Chihiro’s not exactly doing great in the looks department. Though it does give him some hope that Hakuri doesn’t seem all that squeamish about touching his scar.
“Chihiro,” Hakuri says softly, soft enough that Chihiro misses it. He’s too wrapped up in the spiral of his own thoughts. “Are you still awake?”
It feels a little wrong, laying with his head pillowed in Hakuri’s lap while he touches his face, like Chihiro is taking something Hakuri doesn’t know he’s giving. It’s probably wrong. Chihiro should stop this immediately. He can rub a couple globs of scar cream over his face on his own. He doesn’t even need the stuff, not really — he’s survived without it for three years. A migraine isn’t going to kill him.
Hakuri wipes his hand off on his pants and rests it in Chihiro’s hair.
Chihiro goes absolutely still.
“I hope you have a good dream,” Hakuri mutters. His hand moves, his fingernails scratching lightly against Chihiro’s scalp. Chihiro, who he thinks fell asleep.
It’s not like his migraine magically went away, not completely — but it’s better than before, a dull ache instead of stabbing agony, maybe because of Hakuri’s efforts or maybe just because of Hakuri himself. He still feels a little sick, feverish and nauseous and not exactly himself, so maybe that’s why he doesn’t correct the misunderstanding. Chihiro doesn’t mean to actually fall asleep, but he does anyway, dozing off even though his heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of his chest.